course, my motherâs depression and what it was like for me to live alone with her.
Theresa lived in a small cottage with her many siblings and both parents. Because her house was crammed with people, to get privacy we would walk out into the empty fields near her house, or along the railroad tracks. Immersed in conversation, under the big sky, with clouds scudding overhead, I would feel big and expansive, my body vibrating with energy. I had never felt such freedom and joy in sharing my thoughts with another girl.
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NOT LONG AFTER MOM came home, she heard about a doctor who practiced alternative medicine. He kept wacky hours, seeing patients at his office in Trenton from midnight to six in the morning. Mom left me at my grandparentsâ house, checked into a motel in Trenton, and roused herself for her 4:00 AM appointment. The doctor diagnosed her with severe hypoglycemia and low thyroid, and gave her armloads of vitamins, thyroid medication, and a regimen for reducing some of her psychiatric drugs. Although still addicted to sleeping pills at night, she became less groggy in the daytime.
Mom was rumbling back to life. Years later, she would tell me how defective she had felt when she knew her marriage was ending, like there was something really wrong with her. Somehow she decided to go on. That winter semester, she enrolled in a masterâs of education program to become an elementary-school teacher. Sometimes I helped with her projects. One day, I came home to find her seated in front of a large blown-up balloon resting on the table, a bucket of papier-mâché next to it. Her ashtray was filled with cigarette stubs, and one smoking cigarette rested on its edge. âHon, can you help me? I donât have the patience.â She was supposed to make a globe. I loved anything to do with art, and I launched in, spreading newspaper on the table under the balloon, layering the papier-mâché
around it. After it dried, I painted the continents in green, the ocean in blue, happy to have such a simple way to help Mom.
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IN THE SPRING OF 1965, American planes started the bombing raids on North Vietnam dubbed Operation Rolling Thunder, and Mom joined Women Strike for Peace. It threw me into a dilemma: Did I think the war was wrong? In 1965 there was no large peace movement yet, and I knew no other kids who were against the war. I sought out advice from my eighth-grade teacher, Mr. Shelton, whom I adored. He wasnât handsome, but I thought he was the greatest because he challenged his students to think. I hadnât yet learned to dampen my smartness in deference to boys, and I was one of those students always furiously raising a hand. One day after class, I asked Mr. Shelton what he thought about Vietnam. He wouldnât answer. He told me that I had to learn about Vietnam myself and come to my own conclusion. I begged, I pleaded, âWhat do you think?â but he kept pushing me; âThis isnât a decision someone else can make for you. You have to delve into it, and then decide what you believe.â
Mr. Sheltonâs respect for my reasoning abilities made me face the responsibility. It was a scary decision. I hesitated because in some vague way I understood that once I concluded that America was not the righteous purveyor of freedom, many beliefs Iâd been taught would come tumbling down.
I had stared at the newspaper pictures of Vietnamese Buddhist monks protesting by immolating themselves in the Saigon streets. Puzzled, horrified, and moved by such an act, I was led by the intensity of those pictures to research more. Mom had bought a couple of books about Vietnam. Reading about the history of foreign interventions
in Vietnam and the escalating U.S. role, I became clear. Mr. Shelton was rightâI could figure out what I believed. I joined Mom on the picket line.
In front of the New Brunswick Army induction center, there were the handful of Women Strike for
Theresa lived in a small cottage with her many siblings and both parents. Because her house was crammed with people, to get privacy we would walk out into the empty fields near her house, or along the railroad tracks. Immersed in conversation, under the big sky, with clouds scudding overhead, I would feel big and expansive, my body vibrating with energy. I had never felt such freedom and joy in sharing my thoughts with another girl.
Â
Â
NOT LONG AFTER MOM came home, she heard about a doctor who practiced alternative medicine. He kept wacky hours, seeing patients at his office in Trenton from midnight to six in the morning. Mom left me at my grandparentsâ house, checked into a motel in Trenton, and roused herself for her 4:00 AM appointment. The doctor diagnosed her with severe hypoglycemia and low thyroid, and gave her armloads of vitamins, thyroid medication, and a regimen for reducing some of her psychiatric drugs. Although still addicted to sleeping pills at night, she became less groggy in the daytime.
Mom was rumbling back to life. Years later, she would tell me how defective she had felt when she knew her marriage was ending, like there was something really wrong with her. Somehow she decided to go on. That winter semester, she enrolled in a masterâs of education program to become an elementary-school teacher. Sometimes I helped with her projects. One day, I came home to find her seated in front of a large blown-up balloon resting on the table, a bucket of papier-mâché next to it. Her ashtray was filled with cigarette stubs, and one smoking cigarette rested on its edge. âHon, can you help me? I donât have the patience.â She was supposed to make a globe. I loved anything to do with art, and I launched in, spreading newspaper on the table under the balloon, layering the papier-mâché
around it. After it dried, I painted the continents in green, the ocean in blue, happy to have such a simple way to help Mom.
Â
Â
IN THE SPRING OF 1965, American planes started the bombing raids on North Vietnam dubbed Operation Rolling Thunder, and Mom joined Women Strike for Peace. It threw me into a dilemma: Did I think the war was wrong? In 1965 there was no large peace movement yet, and I knew no other kids who were against the war. I sought out advice from my eighth-grade teacher, Mr. Shelton, whom I adored. He wasnât handsome, but I thought he was the greatest because he challenged his students to think. I hadnât yet learned to dampen my smartness in deference to boys, and I was one of those students always furiously raising a hand. One day after class, I asked Mr. Shelton what he thought about Vietnam. He wouldnât answer. He told me that I had to learn about Vietnam myself and come to my own conclusion. I begged, I pleaded, âWhat do you think?â but he kept pushing me; âThis isnât a decision someone else can make for you. You have to delve into it, and then decide what you believe.â
Mr. Sheltonâs respect for my reasoning abilities made me face the responsibility. It was a scary decision. I hesitated because in some vague way I understood that once I concluded that America was not the righteous purveyor of freedom, many beliefs Iâd been taught would come tumbling down.
I had stared at the newspaper pictures of Vietnamese Buddhist monks protesting by immolating themselves in the Saigon streets. Puzzled, horrified, and moved by such an act, I was led by the intensity of those pictures to research more. Mom had bought a couple of books about Vietnam. Reading about the history of foreign interventions
in Vietnam and the escalating U.S. role, I became clear. Mr. Shelton was rightâI could figure out what I believed. I joined Mom on the picket line.
In front of the New Brunswick Army induction center, there were the handful of Women Strike for
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